


As the Spirit Moves You

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-31
Updated: 2008-05-31
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Chills and thrills in an old haunted French castle.





	As the Spirit Moves You

**Author's Note:**

> ♥ ♥ ♥ and :* :* :* to [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[**just_dreamsome**](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/) , who I don't feel I thank often enough.
> 
> As for the castle and the story: [It's real](https://great-castles.com/brissacghost.php).
> 
> Disclaimer: If Ms F. read this she would blanch white as a… well, you know.

Stupid castle.

It was freezing rain outside, the sky as grey as polished steel, and even though it was the middle of the day, being in the room she shared with her fiancé was like being inside a meat locker. In a _dark_ meat locker. The fire was crackling in the hearth but it seemed to do little good to the temperature of the room outside of three inches in front of the flame.

Stupid bloody castle.

And then there were the noises. The inexplicable moans. She'd arrived at Brissac Castle with the mind of a sceptic, but a tour she'd taken earlier that morning had persuaded her of the validity of the reports thanks to the convincing storytelling of the tour guide: that its former owner had killed his wife and her lover, and found himself selling the place shortly after their deaths because he couldn't bear to hear the dead lovers' moans every night. The place was spooky enough as it was, and then _she_ heard the moans. _All afternoon._

Stupid bloody haunted castle.

Sure, the ghostly moans were supposedly heard only at night, but she reasoned that because of the darkness of the sky, the icy temperature outside, that the day surely was mistaken for night by the spirits.

How long was this blasted meeting supposed to last, anyway? She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, settling further into the fireside chair. She thought maybe the tips of her knees and her toes felt slightly warmer then they had before, but wasn't convinced.

She heard the moan again, and a chill made its way up her spine. That one seemed closer than the last. If Mark were there, he'd probably tell her to get out of their room and go down to a common area, to get a coffee and stop being silly.

She didn't want to leave the room though. She felt safer, more secure, and certainly warmer before the fireplace, not to mention her appalling French. Once Mark came back, then they could go out of this creepy place to dinner and she could tell him all about her day and being plagued by spectral noises.

At last the door opened and she heard the unmistakable sound of men's dress shoes on the stone floor. "Bridget?" It was, of course, Mark.

She stood and threw the blanket off onto the chair, and the chill in the room hit her like a two-by-four. She ran, buried her face into his chest, and embraced him even as she felt goose bumps rising on her skin under her jumper. He enfolded her in his arms.

"Mark, let's go to dinner," she blurted all at once into his shirt.

"Are you hungry?"

"Freezing."

With a quizzical look on his face, he pulled back to look at her, as if trying to make the connection between dinner and being warmer. His brow smoothed, apparently deciding not to question it further, and quickly ran his hands up and down her upper arms as if to hasten the circulation there. "You are feeling a bit cold." His eyes darted down to her chest and he smirked. "You _look_ like you're feeling cold."

She pursed her lips, then couldn't resist a smile. He sure had come a long way from the uptight, reserved, haughty man she'd first met. She certainly couldn't imagine that man making a pointed reference to the state of her nipples. It had surprised her well enough that he'd announced to his colleagues she was accompanying him this weekend even though it was for business, even though he wasn't yet married to her; no one had objected because, well, he was Mark Darcy, top flight human rights lawyer, but she knew the other lawyers were probably scandalised.

"I'd offer to warm you up properly," he added saucily, "but we've been invited to a group dinner and I'm afraid there's no getting out of it. We're expected in about fifteen minutes downstairs in the dining room."

She sighed heavily. There would be no escape; dinner with the twits that Mark worked with (though she quite liked the absent Giles), within the castle itself.

He raised her chin with his index finger. "As for the warming, well, as the Americans say: will you take a rain check?"

She grinned, even as her teeth chattered. "Of course."

………

The talk at dinner consisted of subjects legal and political, a dull monotone that she was thankfully able to tune out; she swore after the Law Council Dinner fiasco to say as little as possible to the people Mark worked with.

Until she heard someone mention ghosts.

"Place is haunted, I hear, by the ghosts of a woman and her lover. The stuff of local legend, apparently," sniffed Camilla. "Don't believe a word of such nonsense myself."

"Oh, but it's true. I heard it," said Bridget.

The crowd around the table stared at Bridget as if she were a mute who had decided to speak after a lifetime of silence.

"Heard the ghost?" asked Derek in disbelief.

"Yes, yes," she said earnestly, nodding her head and meeting the eyes of the assembled one by one. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mark look down with a subtle grin on his face, much like the other men at the table. "They moan, and it's _absolutely_ bone-chilling!"

Derek snorted a laugh. "It's probably just the wind filtering through the castle." She imagined he was adding in his head, _You silly little girl_.

Bristling, she said, "I know the difference between the wind and a ghostly moan, for heaven's sake."

"I thought the moaning was only heard at night," said Portia haughtily.

"That's what the tour guide said, too," said Bridget, offence forgotten, turning to look at the woman. "But I think, you know, when you're a _ghost_ , you don't have a good sense of the passage of time, and maybe you get confused by how dark it is outside."

Silence. Dead silence. Bridget cleared her throat quietly, waiting for someone to volley the conversation back, but no one did. She then felt Mark's hand covering her knee under the table, patting reassuringly. When she raised her eyes to look at him, expecting a slightly patronising expression, he was instead looking at her with a bright smile and absolute adoration in his eyes. "That must be it. After all, I'm fully corporeal and I was convinced it was midnight by the time we got through with that meeting."

There were polite chuckles around the table and Bridget glanced around to see what appeared to be genuine smiles. She turned back to Mark and returned the smile in full, placing her hand over his and squeezing gently.

As conversation returned to the dull and mundane, she thought impishly, _You definitely won't be sleeping on the cold stone floor tonight_.

………

The wine at dinner had definitely had a warming effect and by the time they made it back to their room, it hardly seemed cold at all. The flames in the hearth looked brighter too; she wondered if one of the staff had come in and stoked her sad little fire.

"Feeling better?" asked Mark, loosening his tie, then pulling it off and folding it neatly upon itself three times before setting it on a small table by the fireplace. She watched as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, pulled the collar wide, revealing the planes of his throat, firelight reaching and casting long shadows over him. He was a little dishevelled after a long day, slightly scruffy, and looked utterly gorgeous. "Too cold to speak?" he added, and she realised she had not yet answered.

"Hm, yes, better," she said, snapping out of her lust-filled reverie.

He chuckled and came near to her, casting a shadow over her, haloing him with firelight. When he spoke again his voice was very low and husky. "That's a shame. I was hoping you'd cash in that rain check."

She tried hard to rein in a smile but it was too late; he'd seen it, and he reached for her waist, edging the bottom of her jumper up, then running his palms down over her bottom. "I might be persuaded to part with it." His fingers curled down over to the crease of her arse, squeezing gently, pulling her into him. Her lids slipped down but she managed in a playful tone, "It's a little soon after supper though, wouldn't you say?"

The stubble on his chin was coarse on her cheek as he placed kisses against her ear. She felt her breath go rough as his teeth grazed on the outer lobe, and without conscious thought she arched forward into him just as his fingers slipped beneath the waist of her trousers. "It's never too soon after dinner for dessert," he whispered, breath hot on her neck.

In all of her years in search of the perfect boyfriend, she never would've guessed that it would be quick wit and an abundance of intelligence (coupled, in Mark's case, with the blessing of dusky good looks) that would get the most immediate, visceral reaction out of her, to make her growl low in her throat, rear back, and assault his mouth with her own. Barely breaking for breath, she undid the rest of the buttons until she got to his trousers, then undid that button too, lowering the zip and driving her hand down the front of his boxers. She heard him— _felt_ him—draw in a quick, surprised breath. Her touch was, however, not unwelcome, and he groaned.

"All I could do," he managed as she worked his trousers over his hips, his shirt over his shoulders, "all day long to get me through that abysmal meeting was think of you, of tonight, in this ancient bedroom with the fire blazing—"

"And yet," she interrupted, grazing her fingernails over his bare hips, "here you have me right where you want me and you're still just talking about it."

"Point taken," he said throatily, firmly grabbing the lower hem of her knit top and yanking it up over her head, then working open the button of her linen dress slacks and sending them falling towards the ground. His fingers danced around the ribbon-thin elastic waist of her lacy pants and he said under his breath, "If I'd known you had these pants on I would have excused myself from that meeting hours ago."

She giggled, letting her head fall back as he pressed his lips to her throat, grazing the skin with his teeth. A gasp escaped her throat as his right hand dove down the front of those skimpy pants, fingers curving into her, sliding over and into her with ease. She could only grind her hips forward into his touch.

"I see you don't need persuading at all," he said, using his left hand to tug the elastic of her pants as far down as they would go with his right hand still occupied (and to good effect).

"Shut up," she said, or at least she tried, but she was too lost to the effects of desire to properly speak. To make her intention perfectly clear, she pulled down on the other side of her pants so that they dropped to the floor, grabbed his own bare bottom, and pulled herself up against him, all too aware of the obstacle between them.

He groaned again. "Jesus, Bridget," he said between breaths. "You're killing me."

She laughed low in her throat, raking her nails along his thigh.

In an instant he crouched down, pressed his hands into her bottom and lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, encircled his neck with her arms, and kissed him as he carried her over and set her down on the edge of the king-sized bed. He ran his palms along her thighs.

The bed was so tall she was practically still at his waist level. He touched her cheek with one hand, stroked her inner thigh with the other. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, then closed it, assuredly reminded of her earlier words about having her where he wanted her. Instead he rapidly stepped forward, leaned down to kiss her, his fingers pressing into her.

She didn't even have time to gasp before he was grasping her hips and taking her right there on the edge of the bed.

It was the best of both worlds: she with soft bed beneath her bottom with no gravity to fight, he in a far better position to thrust with the leverage of both legs and being upright. She wanted him closer, deeper, harder than was probably physically possible; she hooked her legs around his thighs, snaked her arms around his neck, and pulled herself into him in time with his thrusts, between grunts and gasps, demands of and calls to deities. Her lids flickered open to catch flashes of amber light playing across his chest, his face, his closed eyes, his slightly slack jaw.

In her ears was the sound of rushing water or perhaps her own blood pounding through her veins; then she was arcing back as much as her outstretched arms would allow, digging her heels into his legs, thrusting her hips up, pulling herself ever closer. The water became static, then silence; her body wound tighter and tighter like coiled elastic until the tension was too much. In an instant it released and her head dropped back, her nails pressing into his shoulders, simultaneously shivering hot and cold as pleasure suffused through to the very core. Through her open mouth all the breath she'd been holding in rushed out until there was no more.

She felt the moment Mark's knees gave out from under him as he listed forward and on top of her, claiming her mouth again, gathering her up into his arms then running his fingers through her hair. It was only then that it occurred to her that they were two separate entities. "My darling girl," he rasped as he rolled so that she was atop him, so that they were more squarely centred on the mattress, and plied her with languorous, satiated kisses, his hands cradling her face as if holding the most precious object on earth.

_Which to him, it might be_ , she thought, sighing happily, thinking herself the luckiest woman not only in England, but the world, the galaxy, and maybe even the universe.

She spent many moments in this blissful state when a thought began creeping into her head, one that disturbed her a little bit. While the whole romp had been a wondrous, ecstatic blur, it was a blur nonetheless; surely even through that, though, she would have noticed the moment he came too. "Mark, did you…?" she began unsurely.

"Did I what?" he asked in a thick, lusty voice as his fingers trailed along where her breasts were pressed up against him.

"You know. _Enjoy that_."

His barely discernible laugh signalled to her that he took her meaning. "Oh yes. Quite thoroughly. I'm not sure how you missed my… enjoyment." His fingers moved along her ribcage to the small of her back. "I think I… expressed myself a little louder than I should have considering our neighbours."

She giggled, kissing him fully on the mouth again, thinking of the good, solid, strong stone walls. Loved the lovely castle.

"Mark?"

His hands were firmly on her bottom, his fingers pressing urgently into her skin. "Yes?"

"Do we have to be anywhere else tonight?"

"No."

"Good." She rolled over so that he was atop her once more, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, kissing him again, lifting her knees to either side of him. "I'm in the mood," she said naughtily, "for a little more dessert."

………

Too soon, it seemed, it was morning, and rosy-cheeked, relaxed and well-rested, the pair of them headed down to check out of the room then join the group for breakfast before traversing to the airport. When they arrived she noticed animated discussion between Derek, Camilla, Portia and the others at the large group table.

"Good morning," said Mark as he pulled out a chair for Bridget. "What's all the buzz about?"

"I heard them," said Camilla, her eyes round as saucers. "The ghosts! I heard them last night, howling into the wee hours!"

Bridget's mouth dropped open into an O. Simply unbelievable that Ms Prissy Bottom would admit to such a thing!

Mark seemed equally taken aback. " _You_ heard the ghosts?"

"Yes!" Camilla said; for her to say so again bespoke of how much she liked the attention it was getting her. "No wonder old Jacques up and left the place. I never could have put up with it."

Bridget felt a little envious. Their rooms were not that far apart—how did she not hear it? "When during the night?"

"Well," she said, looking quite thoughtful, "shortly after retiring to my room after dinner. Then a little later, and again long after dark. And they weren't indistinct by any means. Clear as day; male and female voices! Gave me the _chills_ , I tell you!"

"I—"

As she began speaking, she glanced over to Mark, intent on saying she hadn't heard anything and asking him if he'd heard anything, but she noticed his gaze had turned downward to the table, and he had turned a very deep shade of crimson around the collar of his dress shirt.

"—think I might have heard it," she finished feebly.

"I imagine you must have," said Derek, smirking in a weird way, "as it seemed to be coming from your end of the hall."

Now she was thoroughly confused both by the comment and by Mark's deepening blush. Thankfully, the server came to take their breakfast orders and conversation went off in an entirely new direction after that.

As they climbed into the rental car to head to the airport, Bridget slipped her hand over his forearm. "Are you all right, Mark?" she asked softly as he engaged the engine and headed down the road back towards civilisation.

"I'm fine," he said in a tight voice, then breathed out a sigh. "I now question the validity, however, of any of the legendary moaning ghost stories."

"But I heard them!" she protested. "Camilla Bloody Ice Queen heard them, for God's sake."

"I don't think she did." He glanced over to her. "Bridget, how much do you actually remember hearing last night?"

"What? You mean while we were—well, before we were sleeping?" _Not much_ , she thought, still kicking herself for missing out on the lovers' ghostly howls.

He went silent for a few minutes. "You… I… well. Could have been the setting, the ambience, the history of the castle but… we were both a bit unrestrained. _Vocally_."

"Vocally?" she repeated, then felt the blood drain from her skin as she understood Mark's meaning, as the reason for Mark's earlier embarrassment and Derek's comment and leering grin became crystal clear. "No. _No_. They're _stone walls_."

"They're modern renovations made to look like stone walls, love," he said.

She couldn't speak for many moments; her mind was reeling. "So you're saying…"

"Yes. I'm saying."

"…that the ghostly moans were, for the most part… shagging couples?"

"Very probable."

"Even the ones I heard?"

"Afternoon delight, as they say. Yes."

"Oh, God." She sunk down in the seat and turned to look at the passing landscape. " _Oh, God_ ," she said again, doubly mortified. "I'll never be able to face them again."

She felt his hand on her knee. "Darling," he began; when she turned to him again, she caught the edge of a smirk on his lips. "I think those of the bunch sharp enough to have figured it out are, quite honestly, a little _jealous_. I mean," he continued, turning momentarily to her again to give her an appreciative look, "I would be in their shoes."

She smiled, feeling a little consoled, but vowed to avoid Derek in future at all costs.

_The end._


End file.
